


A Man and His Dog

by stuphanie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Animal Death, Friendship, Minor Character Death, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2615516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuphanie/pseuds/stuphanie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short story following Alistair's life and the abandoned mabari he finds. Focuses on the impact the dog has on his life as he grows up, and finally makes him feel like he belongs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man and His Dog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joustings](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=joustings).



> Fic written for mary (joustings) on tumblr.

Alistair crouched on his hunkers in the grass, away from the other children, drawing cartoonish illustrations in the mud with a stick and scratching lines here and there. He held his tongue between his teeth in concentration as he embellished a rather crude image of Sister Augustine. He looked over his shoulder uneasily to ensure that the Sister remained at her post atop the Chantry steps, looking down on the small handful of children enjoying their playtime. There were only a few of them, and mostly boys; they were to become Templars whilst the girls were to help in the kitchens. Alistair turned back to his drawing. It was coming along nicely.

“What are you doing?”

He jumped as a voice sounded behind him. Looking round, he met the round face of one of the other boys. Alexus, Alexander, whatever his name was. Alistair didn’t particularly care.

“Nothing for you to be interested in,” he shot back, hastily scratching over the dirt.

“Were you drawing rude things? That’s not allowed you know.” Alexander peered over the other’s shoulder, squinting his eyes.

“Shove off,” snapped Alistair, throwing down his drawing utensil and stalking off into the undergrowth by the ten-foot wall. He glared as Alexander trotted off back to the other children. Scuffing the ground with his foot, Alistair began yanking long blades of grass out of the ground, before throwing them back down irritably. He detested playtime; it was a chance for the children – namely orphans and waifs from the street – to have a breath of fresh air, only to be ushered back inside some half an hour later. The wall prevented them from seeing and contacting the outside world, so really it was rather lonely.

Alistair sat down, now braiding grass together, when a soft noise reached his ears. It was a gentle kind of thumping, which stopped, and was followed by a weak cry. He shrugged, continuing with the clumsy plaiting of grass, when it sounded again. Curious, Alistair pulled back overgrown shrubs. A shapeless mass met his eyes and, possessing the dangerous curiosity similar to most ten year-olds, he crawled in on all fours.

He gasped. It was a burlap sack and it was moving! Tentatively, he poked the rough material with a hesitant finger. Whatever it was, it was soft and it cried more at the contact. Surely if it was dangerous, then it would’ve attacked by now?

Slowly, and with extreme care, Alistair opened the sack an inch or so – but this was enough for whatever was inside. A bundle of something brown and hairy tumbled out and rolled towards the wall. It hit the stone with a soft thunk and Alistair leapt back in alarm. His heart pounded in his chest and he remained paralysed by fear until –

“A puppy!” he said hoarsely, his heart rate returning to normal as the ball of fluff bounded towards him to lick his face. It was a mabari, a rather gangly one, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was the runt of the litter. Ribs pressed against its skin yet it didn’t cease its licking of Alistair’s face. Maybe someone tossed it aside on their way in through the huge wooden gates one night, after deciding that it was simply too much hassle?

Alistair giggled as the puppy nibbled on his fingers. Little guy must be hungry, he thought, making a mental note to steal a role or two from the dinner table – though sneaking back out would be difficult. But then…

“Alistair! There you are, you naughty child!” Sister Augustine scolded as a very grubby Alistair trudged up the Chantry steps, his head hanging. “Last in again! You will wash before dinner and change your clothes, if you please! Come on, don’t dawdle!”

With a fleeting, apologetic glance, Alistair rushed by her. In her ire, she did not notice the small bundle that he now carried under coat. Grinning to himself, he clattered down the stone corridors, his small hands clutching protectively at the puppy he had managed to smuggle in. 

* * *

 

Quinn, Alistair had decided to name him, spent most of the day hidden under Alistair’s bed in his quarters. The dog was smart enough to know when to stay put and had grown accustomed to Alistair’s scent to the extent that the mabari nearly always knew when he had entered the room, bored and exhausted from a day of long lessons with Sister This and Sister That. Alistair collapsed on his bed, allowing the rolls and dried meat that he had stolen from the dinner table to cascade out of his pockets and onto the floor. Quinn pounced on them and chomped loudly before nuzzling his master’s pockets for more food.

“Nothing else today,” Alistair told him with a sigh. Quinn cocked his head to one side and whimpered, proceeding to push his snout against the young boy’s thigh. The dog was growing at a rapid rate, Alistair noticed, and it would soon be time that Quinnn would no longer be able to hide between coverlets away from prying eyes. Pets were forbidden in the monastery; the rats that scuttled across the rafters didn’t count, so whispers of a dog in the chantry would travel fast.

Quinnn rested his head on the edge of the bed, his huge brown eyes looking up at Alistair sadly, as if picking up on his mood. The dog had brought him an inexplicable comfort over the past few weeks. He had found, even, a friend in the mabari. Quinnn listened and didn’t interrupt, he watched with rapt attention, never telling Alistair to shut up like the Sisters did, or tell him that he was lame and a loser like most other children had done so. Quinnn cuddled up to him when gales howled and storms rattled the windowpanes, pressing his wet nose against Alistair’s cheek as the child shook whether it be from cold or fear. Alistair looked forward to the end of his lessons now, rather than feeling the imminent dread of being in a room on his own, unwanted and shunned, because the mabari that watched and listened and raised no stupid questions would be there, like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. He knew that a dog wouldn’t abandon you, much like Eamon did to him, he remembered with a stab of melancholy. It was him and Quinnn now against the world.  

“I’ll find a way to keep you,” Alistair promised fiercely, scratching the dog behind its ears.

Quinn wagged his tail happily in reply. 

* * *

 

Like most secrets, Quinn was discovered one day to be cowering beneath the armoire out of reach of an irate Sister. After smuggling the dog outside to use the bathroom in the dead of the night, Alistair had ultimately been caught by Sister Augustine on her way to bed with a hot coco.

Augustine finally dragged the scared animal out by the scruff of its neck, also threatening to throw Alistair out onto the street with it.

“No! You can’t get rid of him! He’s mine!” a ten year-old Alistair sobbed, yanking Sister’s robes as she strode out of the boy’s quarters. “He isn't any trouble! He won’t survive out there on his own!”

“No animals allowed, no exceptions,” Sister snapped, keeping a firm hold of the mabari that had begun to wriggle relentlessly, whining for its master.

Through all of the commotion Alistair hadn’t noticed the heads of curious young children poking around their doors – nor did he notice the slow footsteps of the Grand Cleric approaching them.

“Give him back!” Alistair made to swipe at Quinn in Sister’s hands, her arms oustretched as if the puppy may contaminate her. “You c-can’t!”

“Shut up, child, you are making an unnecessary scene,” Augustine said coldly, pulling the mabari out of the crying Alistair’s reach. “This animal –”

“Sister Augustine,” said the Grand Cleric calmly, announcing her presence.

Instantly, Sister dropped the dog to the ground, before bowing low. “Your Grace. I did not mean to rouse you at such an hour.”

Quinn scampered straight into Alistair’s waiting arms, the latter of whom scooped him up and held him to his chest protectively, glaring at the others through red-rimmed eyes.

“It is no bother. May I ask what all this commotion is about?”

Shooting a malevolent glare at Alistair, Sister Augustine launched into her story, never failing to mention one or five times about the rules the Chantry had about animals.

The Grand Cleric raised a hand. “I am aware of the rules, young Sister.”

Alistair clutched Quinn tighter. The puppy whimpered quietly, trying to burrow into the crook of his master’s neck. The Cleric raised an appraising eyebrow and Alistair felt his blood run cold. The Grand Cleric’s word was law; if she so decided, then Quinn could be left out on the streets at the drop of a hat. She continued to survey Quinn’s behaviour for some time and the small group of onlookers held their breath.

“It appears,” the Grand Cleric murmured after a while, “that tearing the dog away after it has devoted itself to a master it has deemed worthy would be an abomination.” Sister Augustine flushed angrily but the Cleric continued. “Tell me, child, how long has the animal been in your possession for?”

Alistair hesitated, knowing that he would have to tell the truth. “Three weeks, I think. Your Grace,” he added hurriedly.

“I see. It is a mabari, is it not?”

“I – I think so,” Alistair stuttered, puzzled as to where this was going. He hushed Quinn, the latter of whom had begun whimpering at an increased volume.

“Sister Augustine, you are aware of the value of a mabari to the typical Fereldan, are you not?”

Sister nodded, her face stony.

“And you are aware that this boy –” the Grand Cleric indicated Alistair – “will undergo rigorous warrior training and undertake his templar vows once his training is complete?”

Another nod. Sister Augustine looked almost as confused as the on-looking crowd.

“Then we shall make an exception in this case,” the Cleric finished somberly, overlooking the look of disgust and shock on the Sister’s face. Ignoring her splutters, the Grand Cleric turned to Alistair. Her face remained expressionless as she told him the words that he had been so desperate to hear and that would make him the happiest he’d ever been since being dumped at the Chantry. “You, boy, will take care of this dog. He is your responsibility, as he is your partner and guardian, and you must treat him as such, or this privilege shall be revoked. Do I make myself clear?”

Alistair could have hugged her. Grinning from ear to ear he nodded erratically, fleeing back to his dorm room before Sister Augustine regained her senses. 

* * *

 

“Come on, sleepy head, time to get up.”

Alistair swung his legs out of bed, poking the sleeping mabari with his foot. Quinn opened a haughty eye, before stretching luxuriously. He was too big to share a bed with his master anymore. Rather, Alistair had insisted countless times before that a nineteen year-old male needed his own space.

“Up, up, up,” Alistair sang now, donning himself in cracked leather armour for another day’s templar training. The armour was mostly for precaution; he wouldn’t get his sun burst shield and armour until he had taken his vows. Others had qualified before him despite him having trained for the longest. This reminder caused him to vent out his feelings by aiming a bitter kick at his rickety armoire, feeling that a life of religious devotion was not for him. He was not allowed to use the Maker’s name in vain, nor lie with a woman, nor over indulge with wine as part of his leisure time. He had found out the last rule the hard way when he stumbled back to his dorm one night, exceedingly drunk, only for Sister Augustine to reprimand him immediately. It appeared that the late-night piss-ups that the other boys took part in were clearly secret.

Plucking his sword and shield from a bracket on the wall, Alistair allowed Quinn to precede him out of the door and out into the grounds. Clattering of swords and shouts rent the air; a few recruits practiced archery whilst a couple others revised sword techniques.

“Alistair!”

The sword master, Wade, waved Alistair over.

“Yes?”

“This is Aren,” Wade announced without as much as a preliminary hello. He indicated a broad youth not much older than Alistair himself. “You both will be fighting together in the tourney held for the Grey Wardens.”

“The what?” Alistair asked, aghast. “Why have I only just heard of this now?”

“You should learn to listen,” Aren murmured with a sly smirk. Quinn growled and the young warrior eyed the huge dog warily.

“Tomorrow,” Wade continued as if there had been no interruption. “Brush up on your technique, it’s sloppy and you need to do us proud. Her Grace will be watching, too,” he added menacingly.

Alistair groaned. Of course, he would’ve known if he’d paid more attention, but his lack of enthusiasm for such a strict lifestyle meant that his attention span was limited.

“Let’s get this over with, then.”

Pulling down his visor with a resigned sigh, Alistair resumed his position, Quinn watching dutifully from the side lines.

Fifteen days until I take my vows, Alistair counted in his head as he dodged the first blow. 

* * *

 

The fight could have ended worse, Alistair decided.

He had been given a full chainmail armour for the day and had spent most of the previous evening sharpening his longsword with a whetstone and preening Quinn for the tourney. The mabari was not allowed to partake in the tourney – for it was one-on-one combat only – but when Aren brought his sword swinging down, overlooking the fact that Alistair had yielded, Quinn had pounced, fangs bared and snarling. The mabari managed to rip off one of Aren’s gauntlets, his fangs puncturing dents into the metal, preparing to attack again. The shocked crowed gasped at the prospect of the young warrior potentially losing his right hand – but as soon as Alistair yelled the command to stop, Quinn changed tack and ran at his master instead, taking a protective stance in front of his crumpled form. Quinn snarled in Aren’s general direction but remained stationery, bowing to its master, whilst the latter watched with horror and fright etched upon his face.

“Good boy,” Alistair muttered so no one could hear him, patting the mabari’s broad head. “You could’ve taken him on, couldn’t you?”

Quinn barked happily, bounding along, apparently pleased with himself.

Alistair now watched the other templars fight, feeling crestfallen that he couldn’t make his sword swirl with the unequalled grace to that of Ser Eryhn, then feeling inadequate as Ser Talrew boasted of his many victories against the Chasind.

“Maybe we’re just not all that,” Alistair said sadly to his dog. Quinn whined and looked up at him with huge brown eyes, nudging his master’s thigh with his great head. Laughing, Alistair rough-housed with the mabari, yet became aware of the Grand Cleric speaking with a man whom Alistair had never met before. The man was tall and olive skinned, with coal black hair and a mass of bear that covered half of his face. He carried two handsomely crafted daggers on his back, and his armour looked as if it had been fashioned from the most precious ore deep from the Vinmark Mountains.

Alistair ceased playing with Quinn as the Grand Cleric approached, looking uncharacteristically annoyed.

“Alistair, this is Duncan.” She indicated the man next to her and, although her tone was generally polite, an undertone of annoyance ran through it.

“A pleasure to meet you,” said Duncan pleasantly, extending a hand.

Alistair grasped his yet his gaze flicked back at forth between the two people before him. “And you. You Grace, what is going on?”

“It is Duncan’s wish that you join him and the Grey Wardens,” she said steadily. “He has invoked the Right of Conscription so, as it happens, I have no say in the matter.” She cast a bitter glare in Duncan’s direction.

“I don’t understand.”

“The Grey Wardens are an order,” Duncan explained, “they are protectors of Fereldan and, with your character and what I have seen today, it is my wish that you join us. Your mabari too,” he added, and Quinn barked excitedly.

“So,” said Alistair, with the air of someone trying to bring the conversation down to a plane that they understood, “I’ll be leaving the Chantry? To go with you?”

“Yes.”

Alistair’s spirits soared. After the many long years he had endured of terrible unhappiness of being abandoned, the regret of foolishly smashing his mother’s locket, the ridicule he had received from being an inexperienced fighter, he had a chance to leave it all behind. He pinched his thigh to assure himself that this was reality.

He looked down at Quinn at the mabari wagged his tail. He felt a surge of affection for the dog; without him, Alistair was sure that he would have run away by now. Quinn had helped keep him grounded, to remind him that there was good in the world, albeit in the form of human or animal, thus serving as his strength.

“You hear that, boy?” Alistair knelt down and allowed Quinn to lick his ears happily.

Quinn barked once in understanding, following his master as they left the grounds without a backwards glance. 

* * *

 

He was a Grey Warden now. Even months down the line, Alistair still felt odd, dirty even, as he became more consciously aware of the Taint that ran through his veins and caused him to wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, his mind plagued by dreams of darkspawn. He felt different, but what did that mean to a dog?

Every time he glanced down at Quinn as the group trekked here and there, the dog’s demeanour hadn’t changed at all, and for that, Alistair was glad. Though the new Warden recruit had joined him, it was little comfort compared to how others in camp looked at him. Sometimes they were furtive glances that he caught and it was almost as if he were a ticking time-bomb. They knew as well as he did that, inevitably, his life would come to an end, whether he was ready to embrace death or not. It was only when he carried Quinn back to camp with the help of Sten that he realised the magnitude of the responsibility he had taken on.

The dog was still alive, but only just. Alistair rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet as Wynne murmured words. He proceeded to pace the camp, throwing looks at the old mage every so often, keeping away from the others. He didn’t want to hear from anyone else that it wasn’t his fault; Quinn protected him, and he protected the dog in return. That was the whole point of the dog-master relationship. Alistair’s job was to keep his mabari in peak condition and one moment of hesitation, the time he _doesn’t_ knock a genlock in the head to make sure it’s dead, he had nearly cost his partner his life.

“Is he okay yet?” he kept asking the mage, peering over her shoulder at regular intervals.

“I’m doing all I can, Alistair,” Wynne would reply patiently, concentrating blue healing light so that flesh knit back together and bones repaired themselves.

The Warden spoke words of comfort about mabaris her family had owned as nobles but it fell on deaf ears. He nodded his head when he thought he’d been quiet for too long, chewing on a loose piece of skin on his thumb, repeatedly counting to a hundred over and over and over again. Wynne had done all she could but the dog remained unconscious. Even as Alistair’s eyes drooped he jolted back awake, watching the others delve into their tents, even seeing the Warden follow Zevran as Alistair watched from the side-lines. He refused to sleep – but eventually he passed out, either from worry or exhaustion he did not know, his armour digging into the mud. He jolted awake – in the early hours of the morning if he had to guess – and sat bolt upright, his neck aching and joints throbbing, only to find that Quinn had vacated his spot from Wynne’s watchful side and nestled himself near his master’s feet. 

* * *

 

“Hey, wake up.”

Alistair nudged Quinn with his foot when the dog didn’t rouse when called. Wearily, the mabari opened its eyes as if it cost him great effort, staring up at his master doggedly.

“What’s wrong, Alistair?”

Leliana had made her way over, peering down at Quinn as he slowly got to his feet. The older Grey Warden frowned.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe he’s just tired,” she suggested.

“No, that’s not it.”

There was something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Quinn had been fine for the past couple of weeks, what had changed? He wasn’t old; mabaris retained great ages anyway, but Quinn acted as though merely breathing was an effort. Alistair knelt down beside him, offering a soothing tone as he looked his dog over. He stopped short when he got to the flank. Where the injury had been healed after painstaking effort, something there looked off-colour, almost a rotten scab. Running his thumb over the raw pink skin, Quinn yelped at the touch, flinching away.  

“How –?”

“I’m sorry, Alistair,” came Wynne’s gentle voice behind him. “I did all that I could, but he was viciously attacked by darkspawn. The Taint –”

“No!” Alistair shouted, his voice cracking. He scrambled to his feet and for once didn’t care that that the rest of the group looked on as he clutched desperately at his hair, looking at Wynne with such a determined defiance that it was almost desperate. “Don’t say that. He’s a mabari, he’s strong, he – he can't…” Alistair broke off as words failed him and a lump lodged itself in his throat. He became dimly aware of a hand on his shoulder.

“There’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry.” Wynne sounded so sincere yet final that it tugged at his heart to even look at her.

“At least let us find a nice place for him.”

It wasn’t so much a request as it was a command. As if sensing the shift in his master’s mood, Quinn nuzzled against his master’s thigh, slowly following in his wake.

It would be somewhere scenic, Alistair thought defiantly, but such a place was all but unknown in Fereldan. There was Lake Calenhad; it would be a nice thought that, even though he would be buried under a mound of earth, Quinn could serve as a protector to the mages as Alistair once would have been had he taken his vows. The idea was appealing, but he felt uneasy as he watched the dog’s wavering steps. He was doubtful Quinn would even last that long, but even if he succumbed to the worst, Alistair would carry him there, each step and drop of perspiration a gift to the dog that had brought such light into his life. Right now, Alistair felt some semblance of what it would be like to have a family.

And yet, he should have prepared himself for the shout that rent the air, sensed it and their presence long before he heard it.

“Shit, Alistair, on your left!”

He acted on Oghren’s words instantaneously, bringing up his shield just in time to defend himself from the genlock shadow that appeared as if out of nowhere. He brought up his shield to block an incoming blow, countering its attack with a well-practiced riposte of his sword. The blade cut through the creature’s neck as easily as a hot knife through butter. Alistair spotted Quinn almost cowering in the undergrowth, and he knew then that it was his turn to protect the mabari as the dog had done for him.

With a war cry that struck a shiver of fear even into Sten, Alistair barrelled forwards, sword held aloft, intent on taking as many of these bastards down with him as he could. More seemed to appear as if from nowhere yet Alistair sliced his blade through the air countless times, spraying himself with a revolting combination of darkspawn blood and grey matter until the crest emblazoned on his shield was almost illegible. Eventually the darkspawn around him lay dead and, panting heavily, Alistair knelt down next to the shivering dog. Slowly, he reached out a gauntleted hand to offer a comforting touch – almost immediately he yanked it back when the mabari snapped at him.

“Quinn?” Alistair murmured, a questioning intonation in his voice as if expecting a reason why his dog had turned on him. Gently, he turned Quinn’s head to face him, ignoring the low growl that rumbled in the dog’s throat. Quinn’s eyes had taken on a bloodshot quality, the iris tinged red. A stab of revulsion pierced Alistair’s stomach. He knew what this meant.

“Come on, you know me,” he said quietly, scratching Quinn behind his ears. The mabari remained unresponsive but benign, recognising that voice that spoke to him and the pressure of the hands that roamed his body. He didn’t flinch when Alistair inspected his wound again, merely whining pitifully as a finger delicately probed the wound that had begun to spread beneath his body. The once healthy skin beneath the fur had begun to blotch in places. There was no halting its progress.

“He’s getting worse,” Alistair stated as slow footsteps approached him to where he was hunched over. He kept his face turned away as an unhalted tear cascaded down his cheek.

“Do you really want him to suffer of the Taint, Alistair?” Wynne asked gently.

Alistair swung round, his expression defiant. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded, though already felt that he knew. For it to be spoken would make it so final.

Wynne faltered. “All I’m saying is that it’s a painful end.”

He turned back to the dog and could see his own anguish reflected in those dark eyes, the eyes that had brought him inexplicable comforts on the days he felt most alone. As if sensing his master’s distress, Quinn steadily rose to his feet, his body quivering slightly as he supported his own weight. He pressed a dry nose to Alistair’s cheek, nuzzling the weeks’ worth of stubble there. He returned the dogs affections, watching as Quinn took a few tentative steps then looked back, his tail wagging slowly.

“I’m going to see this through,” Alistair said firmly, holstering his weapons and following in the dog’s wake.

But watching Quinn’s agonisingly slow footfalls seemed to have awoken something inside Alistair. Was it really fair for him to watch his dog suffer? After all he, as a Grey Warden, knew what lay beyond once the Taint takes over the body. He didn’t want to watch Quinn become some kind of travesty of the Blight wolves that many had taken a sword to. Alistair glanced up and saw the others walking ahead of him, engrossed in their own conversations. He halted in his tracks, giving Quinn an encouraging pat when the mabari glanced up at him.

“You go on ahead,” he called to the group. “I’ll catch up.”

Something in his decisive tone of voice caused them all to nod understandably, albeit morosely, and Alistair couldn’t bear to welcome their looks of pity. He turned his back on them and knelt down next to the mabari, removing his gauntlets to cup the dog’s face and feel his thick fur one last time. Throughout the short time that they had been walking, Quinn’s condition seemed to have worsened; deep red ran through his eyes and as he panted slowly, his gums had begun to take on a decaying quality. He looked half mad with his blackening tongue lolling out of his mouth, yet he appeared to retain some form of understanding as Alistair spoke to him, nuzzling into the hands that had raised him and cared for him.

“You’re such a good dog,” Alistair crooned to him, rubbing the velvety ears between his fingers which Quinn always enjoyed. Despite enjoying the attention, clumps of fur began to moult from the areas Alistair touched. “We had some good times, huh?”

Quinn barked hoarsely in response, his stubby tail wagging as erratically as ever.

“You are such a good dog,” Alistair murmured, feeling his eyes burn and throat constrict, “and the best friend I could ever ask for.”

Noting a change in his voice, Quinn cocked his head to one side, butting his head against Alistair with a whimper. Regardless of how intelligent mabari are, how do you tell a dog that it’s in his best interest to take his life now, while he still retains his sanity?

Alistair had barely gotten to his feet and reached to his sword when something hard and heavy knocked him at the side of his head. He tumbled to the ground and Quinn jolted into action, snarling and snapping at the assailant. His vision blurred, Alistair looked up at his attacker: a genlock, a shadow that had clearly detached itself from the main group, taking its chance to exploit weakness. Alistair reached for his sword, clumsily swinging it above him – only for it to be kicked out of his hand. He scrambled away desperately, knowing that, at such a disadvantage, this truly was the end.

He closed his eyes to brace for impact, bringing up his arm in self-defence, muttering wild prayers to the Maker as if it would help him. But the blow never came. A vicious snarling caused his eyes to snap open, witnessing Quinn leaping up at the distracted genlock and savaging its neck and throat with a wet tearing sound. Blood splattered the ground, but through its erratic movements as it thrashed about in agony, the beast managed to throw the mabari off. Quinn skidded across the ground as the genlock turned its attention back onto Alistair, mace raised, intent on sinking its spikes into the Grey Warden’s skull.

In a desperate bid to save his own life, Alistair scrabbled for his sword, shifting away on his backside as quickly as his body would permit – only to find a hulking figure of a dog leaping in his way. Quinn snarled at his master’s assailant. It wouldn’t be long until the genlock bled out, but until then, it was clear that the darkspawn was intent on taking as many down with it as it could. Quinn lunged again and was knocked to the side for a second time.

If there was anything someone could admire about a mabari, is its relentless determination to protect the ones it loves.

As the weapon was brought down, the dog leapt in its way, serving as a barrier between master and enemy. Quinn’s blood sprayed Alistair’s face and the dog yelped in pain as its body was cleaved by vicious metal spikes. Through his shock and temporary distraction of the genlock, Alistair dove behind himself to retrieve his blade. As Quinn’s body hit the ground with a thud of devastating finality, the darkspawn lunged at Alistair. Maybe it was due to seeing his best friend’s flesh still clinging to the genlock’s mace, or the fact that the dog had saved him, that Alistair gave a mighty bellow and thrust his blade upwards through the beast’s neck. With a grunt, the genlock’s lifeless body slumped, its weapon falling from its hand as it sagged onto Alistair’s longsword. He yanked his blade from the darkspawn, kicking its body to the side with a noise of disgust. Breathing hard, it took a couple of moments before the situation hit him.

“Quinn!” he cried hoarsely, rushing to the dog’s side. He knew by the mabari’s still chest that it was over, there was no bringing him back, but he knew he wouldn’t forgive himself for not trying despite his futile attempts.

“Come on, buddy,” he whimpered, desperately rubbing at his neck, his chest, even pulling back the eyelids to reveal glazed over eyes. He couldn’t – shouldn’t – be dead. Alistair wanted to take him peacefully from this world, to give him even an ounce of dignity in death, which the genlock didn’t provide. He couldn’t have lost his life to the darkspawn, the very reason why he’d succumbed to the Taint, all for the sake of Alistair, who had thick chainmail to protect him. Quinn was all flesh and bone, and even as he bled out onto the dusty ground, Alistair lifted his body to himself.

With trembling fingers, he closed the eyelids of the dog that had looked at him with so much adoration bordering on reverence, those soft chocolate brown eyes that had brought the comfort of home and belonging. Alistair held Quinn close for the last time, his heart weeping tears of raw grief for the dog that he would never forget.

**Author's Note:**

> the name Quinn is Celtic and conveys the meaning of wisdom/ intelligence, which i thought was rather fitting for a mabari given how clever they're supposed to be!   
> this fic is personal to me as a dog owner, and i hope people can appreciate the close bonds you can have with your dogs (or pets of any kind really!)   
> thanks for reading~


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